


The Fangs of Hydra

by indecisive_penguin



Category: Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Bucky Barnes Feels, Bucky Barnes Gets a Hug, Bucky Barnes Needs a Hug, Child Soldiers, Cuddling, F/M, Found Family, Idiots in Love, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, More Winter Soldiers, Nightmares, Other, Panic Attacks, Platonic Relationships, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, everyone gets the therapy they so desperately need, idiots to lovers, not so platonic sleeping together, platonic sleeping together, unconventional therapy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-24
Updated: 2019-07-24
Packaged: 2020-06-25 19:10:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,682
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19752022
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/indecisive_penguin/pseuds/indecisive_penguin
Summary: Cut off a head, and two more grow to take it's place, teeth sharper and more menacing than before. Often times, those caught up in the growth of those new heads are little more than victims, swept away by the tide and lost in the chaos.It is the Avengers job to sweep in, save the day, and move on. But who is responsible for picking up the pieces after they've gone home?Maybe, this time, the team can find the time, the energy, and the patience to stop and pick up some of the teeth that were shed during the last battle.





	1. Run, Run, Run

_Rome wasn't built in a day, but it burned in one_

* * *

The Asset knows that he needs to run. His handlers are dead and his mission is laid out at the bottom of the Potomac with the three helicarriers, torn to shreds and shattered beyond recognition.

The man from the bridge, the one who knew him from before, will live, but the Asset tries not to dwell on him for too long. Just the memory of blonde hair and blue eyes and that battered, bloody face makes his head ache something fierce.

But the Asset is not without his responsibilities.

He makes his way back to the Secretary’s mansion, specifically the reinforced bunker that acts as the basement. He almost doesn't expect his passcodes to work, but they do and as the door opens he is greeted by four expectant faces.

37, for her part, immediately seems to pick up on the changes in his facial expressions, his body language. He’s not terribly surprised, she’s always been almost precognizantly observant.

“<Trouble?>” Her Russian is still flat, not quite enough emphasis, but he no longer feels the need to correct her pronunciation.

“<We’re leaving. Pack what you can.>” He replies in kind. 37 blinks before nodding to the three boys and they move to obey, none of them commenting on the fact that his accent is suddenly much heavier.

They’re ready to go in under eight minutes, duffels packed and fully dressed, waiting patiently for him at the entrance to the underground bunker.

The Asset pauses at the doorway, glancing down at his torn, bloodied tactical vest.

Not exactly inconspicuous.

He feels a tap on his shoulder and turns to see 37 holding out an insulated jacket, heavy khaki green canvas that he takes without a word, shedding his leather one and letting it fall to the floor with a thump, forgotten.

He nods his thanks and leads the way up the stairs, the sound of four pairs of feet following behind him somehow soothing to his shattered nerves.

* * *

His name is James, or Bucky, he’s not entirely sure which one he should use. All he's certain of is that he’s no longer the Asset.

But he’s not who he was before, either.

Most of his personal memories (who he _used to be_ ) are still fuzzy, distorted, overlaid with screaming and blood and pain, but those parts of him are coming back in bits and pieces, slowly, emerging as if from a thick fog. He’s taken to writing things down, things he's remembered, things he’s dreamed of, things he’s read or seen.

It’s not much, but it’s a start.

He doesn't know _exactly_ why he went back for the kids, but he has some ideas. Maybe it's because they're Child Soldiers, all four of them painfully young despite the modified serum running thick through their blood. Maybe it's their thin faces and haunted eyes, imprinted on the backs of his eyelids, walking reminders of everything HYDRA stood for. Maybe it's the echo of an order, _look after them soldat_ , rattling around inside his head, the only words from his handlers he ever took wholly to heart. Maybe it’s because he’d watched them grow from tiny, frightened children into fully fledged, capable assassins. Maybe it’s the fact that he was the one who trained them, that he helped make them what they are now.

Maybe he feels a little responsible.

It's a toss up.

That doesn’t change the fact that he went back, that he took them with him, or that they followed. He knows, deep down, that if left to their own devices that they’d survive just fine. They’re resourceful, more than capable of getting by without his help. But there had been a nagging sense, in the beginning, of belonging, of feeling needed, that kept him close by. An almost yearning to be relied on that he’s still not prepared to face yet.

He’s also aware that they haven't been children for a long time, but all of that is irrelevant because they’re here now and he’s not about to drive them away because of his own insecurities.

It had taken him a few days to convince them that this wasn’t just another exercise. No more handlers, no more missions, no more _killing_. They could go where they wanted, eat what they wanted, do what they wanted.

They were free.

It had been the first time he’d seen any of them cry.

It had taken him another week to get their names out of them.

He knew they had proper names, just like him, not just the cold, impersonal numbers given to them by HYDRA, but his initial attempts to get them to admit it was like pulling teeth. He understood their reluctance, though. They might not remember their birth names, but the ones they share among themselves are precious, something they’ve clung to through all their time with HYDRA, protected and hidden away from prying eyes.

Because any deviation, any sign of independence had always been swiftly and severely punished. He knows, because he was often the one forced to do the punishing.

Finally, after countless reassurances that this wasn’t a trick, that they were far away from anyone who would hurt them for uttering something as innocuous and revolutionary as a name, he’d gotten what he was looking for.

Now he’s sitting in a tiny, dark apartment, the three boys curled up together in a tangled pile of limbs while they sleep, the bare, thin mattress just wide enough to contain their huddled forms. The windows are partially covered with newspaper, the doors locked, bolted, and blocked with the scant pieces of furniture they’ve managed to scavenge. The girl is sitting propped up against the wall opposite him, arms crossed over her chest, eyes closed and breaths even. But he knows full well she’s not really asleep.

Vienna, whom he’d known simply as 37, is the only girl and oldest of the four kids. She might be in her early twenties, but even she isn't sure of her actual age. He remembers her most vividly of the four, a scrappy little thing that had been fiercely protective of the other children in her group, hazel eyes sparking dangerously in her tiny, pale face. Her dark blonde hair is cropped short, just like the others, though he notices that it’s grown a little ragged in the months they’ve been in hiding, curling slightly at the nape of her neck. A knife handle is barely visible under the collar of her shirt, the sheath looped on a cord around her neck. He thinks he might have given it to her at her initiation, but the memory is fuzzy and indistinct. All he knows for certain is that she never takes it off.

Beside her, curled on his side with his back pressed against her outer thigh, is Kiev, his nearly blue-black skin reflecting the thin strips of neon light that fall across the floor. He’s Vienna’s unofficial second in command and a few years younger than her. He's ever vigilant, constantly looking over his shoulder, waiting for the other shoe to drop. While certainly more taciturn than the others, Kiev simply hides his feelings under layers of sarcasm and heavy scowling. Vienna is constantly teasing him for having 'resting bitch face', a concept which Barnes doesn't fully grasp, but completely understands.

Tucked in against Kiev's front is Glasglow, the youngest of the group. He’s still growing, probably still in his late teens, all gangly limbs and awkward motions belying his lethal efficiency on the battlefield. He’s even paler than Vienna, freckles dusted heavily over his skin, his shockingly red hair standing out even in the gloom of the apartment. He’s a bright kid, curious and cheerful to a fault, but he has a tendency to talk out loud when he’s working through a problem. It’s not bad, per say, but it can be confusing sometimes. He tries his best, which is all Barnes really cares about.

Finally, there’s Columbia, laid out on his side with his back to the wall, wide shouldered and tan skinned, curly black hair falling into his face. It flutters slightly with each breath, but other than that the boy doesn’t stir. He’s around Kiev’s age, probably nineteen or twenty, but is already much taller than the others. He doesn’t often speak if he doesn't have to, unless the subject turns to something he’s interested in. Which, at the moment, is the local soccer team for…wherever they are.

Barnes frowns, trying to organize his thoughts. They might be somewhere in Germany, if he’s remembering correctly, but the past few months have started to blur together. It’s been almost half a year and he still wakes in a cold sweat sometimes, the words ‘you’re my friend' rattling around inside his head. He tries not to think too much about Steve Rogers, but he has a lot of free time, being on the run, and there really isn’t a lot else to occupy him except the kids. And sure, they go along with pretty much everything he suggests, but he’s not so foolish as to take their loyalty for granted. Vienna really doesn’t question him, and the boys certainly never question _her_ , but he’s fully aware that if he were to put them deliberately in harms way that would be the end of it.

Not that he would, but the reminder is always there, warning him that he has responsibilities and can’t just go off half cocked at the drop of a hat. It helps to ground him, putting him squarely in the present instead of the past.

He’s startled from his musings when Vienna suddenly jerks violently, head snapping up as her whole body jumps, going tight and tense in an instant, breathing rapid and loud in the still quiet of the apartment. At her side, Kiev stirs, but she immediately drops a hand to brush along his ribs and he settles instantly.

Barnes can see her trying to control her breathing from across the room, fighting to take deep, measured lungfuls of air, and feels his expression soften. Her head lifts when he shifts, the soft whirring of his left arm no doubt reaching her ears.

“Lup?” The nickname almost makes him smile, but he tamps down the urge.

“You okay?” He asks instead, keeping his voice soft. She takes another deep breath, scrubbing a hand over her face.

“Yeah, just…I hate having nightmares when I’m awake.” She mutters and he nods. He can certainly sympathize.

Silence stretches between them again, but it’s comfortable. There’s no pressure to it, no awkwardness, and he’s grateful for that.

“We’ll move on soon.” He finally says, breaking the quiet. Vienna’s head tilts, indicating that he has her attention.

“We should head East.” She says. He blinks.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. I read that Belarus is nice this time of year, and if not we can head South to Romania. And I don’t know about you, but I’d rather go sooner rather than later. No offense to Germany, but I am quite tired of Bratwurst.”

He has to smother his laugh so as to not wake the boys. The ache in his sides feels good, though, cathartic, especially when he sees an answering glimmer in Vienna’s eyes.

“Alright. East it is.”

* * *

It turns out that they like Romania.

So much so, in fact, that they spend the next few months setting up almost a dozen safe houses around Bucharest.

By the time things really calm down it’s been almost two years since they ran, since they bucked their chains and fled HYDRA’s control. They don’t necessarily get comfortable, but they settle into a routine. It’s still a life of looking over one’s shoulder, double checking exits and entrances, making note of all the people in a crowd. But it’s a marked improvement from what it was. The kids even start to branch out. Nothing major, just a few classes at the local university through online portals that they route and reroute and encrypt to the Nth degree, but Barnes can say with certainty that he’s proud of all of them.

Sometimes they stay together, sharing one of the small apartments they rent collectively, sometimes it’s in groups of two or three, sometimes they’re all on their own spread out across the city. But they always check in, touch base with each other, make sure they each have what they need to get by.

It’s for that reason that Barnes finds himself at the market, checking over plums with a gentle touch and haggling with the vendor over price. Vienna is due in an hour or so, bringing some more supplies for him from their main stash, and he figures the fruit can’t hurt. The kids all have a sweet tooth, having discovered sugar once they abandoned HYDRA’s strict dietary restrictions, and Vienna is no exception. In fact, she might be the worst offender after Columbia. They can always trust her to have some kind of candy stashed somewhere on her person.

Barnes can’t help but smile at the thought, thanking the vendor as he hefts his bag and steps away from the stall.

It isn’t until he’s at the crosswalk that _something_ makes the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end, unease slithering through his gut like acid.

He shifts, sweeping his gaze casually over the crowd, and it’s then that he notices the news stand across the street, the man tending it staring at him in slack jawed shock, familiarity sparking in his eyes.

As Barnes steps off the sidewalk, closing the gap between himself and the stand, the man turns and flees. Barnes feels his heart trip, suddenly hammering in his chest as he sweeps up the paper the man had abandoned to see the headline "Winter Soldier Bombs UN" and an enlarged photo of his face underneath it.

His jaw clenches, mind whirring as he turns and stalks off, trying to melt into the crowd.

Whatever is happening, it can’t be good.

And everything was going so well, too.


	2. They All Fall Down

_Great minds think alike, small minds rarely differ_

* * *

“So, you like cats?” Sam asks from the back seat.

“Sam.” Steve’s tone is a warning, one that Wilson shrugs right off.

“What, the guy shows up dressed as a cat and you don’t want to know more?”

There’s more bickering, back and forth, as they near the bridge spanning over the Spree, the imposing backdrop of the Joint Counter-Terrorist Centre looming over the water. Steve turns away from T’Challa to see that the guard riding shotgun is fiddling with their phone, their rifles laid haphazardly across their lap like an afterthought.

“<Eyes sharp, rookie.>” Snaps the driver in German. The guard glances up, hazel eyes meeting Steve’s for a fraction of a moment before they flick away.

“<Sorry.>” She responds, not sounding sorry at all. The driver scoffs.

“<We’re on assignment, girl. Put your phone away.>” He snaps. The woman shrugs, before turning it slightly so the driver can see the screen.

“<But my boys are texting, something about easy pickings.>” She says.

“<For the last time…>” The driver turns his head in annoyance, but his eyes catch on the screen of her phone, held up to display a map of the very same road they’re driving down, the bridge before them lit up red.

“<What the…>” He starts, just as the woman presses her finger to the screen.

The landscape in front of them is suddenly engulfed in light, the explosion rocking the entire van as they come to a screeching halt. At the head of the line the armored vehicle swerves, narrowly avoiding careening into the river as fire and smoke roll up into the sky.

In the sudden silence following the blast the woman strikes, driving the blade of a fighting knife up under the driver's jaw, blood slicking down the handle as she presses her gloved hand over his balaclava covered mouth.

“Shh, shh, easy.” She says softly as the man twitches, giving one agonized moan before going deathly still. She hums, pulling the knife free with a sickening squelch, and glances down at her phone again. The various escort cars are all lit up along the road like blinking red signal flares and as she taps a flashing icon on the screen another deafening explosion rocks the van.

Or, more accurately, over a dozen small ones.

Steve doesn’t want to look, already knowing he's not going to like what he finds, but he raises his head anyway to see the devastated street, the skeletons of burning cars littered along the thoroughfare. There is no evidence of survivors.

“Jesus , Mary, and Joseph.” Sam breathes from the back seat.

The armored vehicle roars, engine revving, and the woman scoffs.

“Oh no you don’t.” She says, tapping away at her phone.

A heavy thud echoes across the street as the armored car’s wheels are blown out from under it. Effectively stranded in the middle of the street, vulnerable, the back doors swing open and half a dozen guards slowly emerge, rifles up. The only problem is that the vehicle had come to a stop perpendicular to the van, meaning that the guards sweeping the road are facing the wrong direction.

The woman reaches up to deftly tug her helmet and balaclava off over her head, revealing dark blonde hair and those striking hazel eyes set in a startlingly pretty face. She reaches over the corpse of the driver and opens his door one handed, shoving him out to land on the blackened pavement with a wet thump. Taking up her HK417 with practiced ease, she steps lightly from the van and saunters towards the armored vehicle.

The next few minutes are a blur of bullets and carnage and Steve is somewhat in awe, because whoever this woman is, she is a force to be reckoned with. He hasn’t seen someone this lethally efficient since Natasha, all lithe grace and pinpoint accuracy as she dispatches the guards without breaking stride. It isn’t her proficiency, however, that makes him shiver, but the pure confidence that oozes from her every pore, how comfortable she is in a situation that would make trained soldiers hesitate. She doesn’t seem the least bit fazed or concerned by the blood and death that she leaves in her wake, and that, above all else, scares him.

She swings up into the bed of the armored car after taking out the last of the guards and it only takes another few seconds for her to reemerge with Barnes at her heels. They both hop down to the pavement and move back towards the van, the two of them apparently arguing over something even as the woman hands him her rifle and opens the driver’s side door.

* * *

He should have known. None of the kids know when to leave well enough alone, least of all Vienna, so it shouldn’t have surprised him in the slightest to see her appear at the door of his cell, armed to the teeth and as nonchalant as she could be when she was so obviously seething mad.

“<You lost the privilege to complain about my driving when I had to travel to _Berlin_ to bail you out.>” She snarks in Romanian, buckling her seat belt and putting the van in gear.

“<I still don’t have to like it.>” He snaps back, not bothering to buckle up as Vienna does an abrupt U-turn and speeds away from the Terrorist Centre, the wail of sirens echoing in the air.

“<Do you at least know what the hell this is all about?>” She asks, turning down a back alley to put some distance between them and the crime scene.

“<They think I was responsible for the UN bombing.>” He answers.

“<We got that bit. The boys are working on a lead as we speak.>” She says, shifting as they travel under the freeway and into a more industrial area. Barnes frowns.

“<You’re here alone?>” He asks and she shrugs.

“<You’re saying the two of us aren’t enough?>” She asks, a challenge in her hazel eyes.

“Can someone in this car please speak English?” The man in the very back row complains. Vienna eyes him through the rear view mirror before glancing at Barnes.

“Friends of yours?” She asks. He grimaces.

“No.” He says.

“Yes.” The blonde man says at the same time.

Vienna throws Barnes a look, one eyebrow cocked, and he grumbles under his breath.

“I don’t know.” He complains.

A sudden smattering of gunfire against the pavement behind them and the incessant sound of sirens draws both of their attention back to the road.

“Oh, look, the Germans are coming.” She deadpans and Barnes tries his hardest to hold back a snort.

“Really?” He manages to throw her an unamused look and she shrugs, unrepentant.

“I thought you’d like it.” She defends, shifting gears and drifting the van around a turn to avoid the flashing lights in their rear-view. Barnes reflexively grabs the door handle, breaking it in his fist as he does so, and swears under his breath.

“I regret ever teaching you to drive.” He grits through his teeth and Vienna laughs, taking another turn at speed.

Something beeps and Vienna digs in her pocket for her phone, glancing at it as she drives.

“Well, it’s a set up.” She says. Barnes makes a face as she swerves around a car without looking at the road.

“No shit.” He growls under his breath.

“Cool it, Lup. Does the name Helmut Zemo ring any bells?” She asks, handing him her phone. He takes it with careful fingers, thumbing through the message, complete with a mugshot.

“No.” He answers as he reads.

“Well, maybe Captain Rogers will know him, considering his family was killed during the Sokovia incident.” She says, meeting the blonde’s eyes through the rear-view mirror. Steve shakes his head.

“I don’t.” He says.

“This changes nothing.” T’Challa suddenly growls, leaning forward against the mesh separating him from Barnes and Vienna.

“I didn’t kill your father.” Barnes tells him sternly.

“Then why did you run?” T’Challa snarls.

“You _were_ trying to kill him. Not like you were stopping to listen, either.” Vienna points out and T’Challa sends her a withering glare.

“And what do you know of this?” He snaps. Vienna meets his glare head on, completely unfazed.

“Other than the fact that none of us have left Bucharest in over 13 months? We don’t do this shit anymore. Not unless someone is shooting at us first, anyway.” She says. T’Challa’s brows furrow.

“We?” He asks. Vienna waves a hand between herself and Barnes.

“We’re somewhat similar.” She says cryptically, returning her attention to the road.

Barnes groans as they take another turn at speed, the tail end of the van fishtailing slightly as they clear the corner. The flashing lights behind them are starting to lag.

Suddenly, the phone in Barnes’ hands starts to ring. He answers it without a second thought.

“Yeah?” He asks. Glasglow’s voice floats through the cab of the van as the phone goes to speaker.

“Turns out Zemo was in Berlin.” He says.

“You called us just for that?” Vienna asks tersely as she takes another sharp turn.

“I haven’t even gotten to the best part, Vee.” Glas says.

“Spit it out, then.” Barnes growls.

“The Joint Counter-Terrorist Centre was planning on bringing in a psychologist to evaluate Barnes. Guess who we found dead in Zemo’s hotel bathtub?” He asks.

“The psychologist.” Vienna says.

“Yup. Not only that, but Zemo left something interesting behind. Hold on, I’m sending you a picture.”

The phone in Barnes’ hands beeps and he swipes up to open the attachment. Steve, Sam, and T’Challa watch as his face drains of color.

“Jesus.” He breathes, drawing Vienna’s attention. She glances over and starts swearing up a blue streak, curses in multiple languages falling from her lips.

“Where the fuck did he get that? What’s he even doing with it?” She snarls.

“No idea.” Glas answers. “We think he got it from Karpov. He’s the only former handler who makes sense and, according to our sources, he hasn’t shown up for work in a few days. As for the other thing…” He trails off.

“We think he's on his way to Siberia.” He finishes softly.

A moment of silence falls over the cab, broken only by the very faint sound of sirens in the distance, before Vienna sucks in a breath.

“Fuck. He’s going for the Volunteers.” She hisses, understanding in her eyes as she glances at Barnes, who swallows thickly.

“Can you track Zemo?” Barnes asks, voice shaky.

“Of course. What should we do with the stuff in his hotel room?” Glas says.

“Leave everything except the book. The authorities will deal with it.” Vienna all but growls.

“Will do, boss lady. I would suggest losing your tail as fast as possible, they’re starting to set up blockades.” The phone clicks as the line goes dead.

Vienna puts her foot to the floor.

* * *

They dump T’Challa on the side of the road, still handcuffed, before ditching the van a few miles away in a long term parking lot. The Beetle they end up stealing is small, but it’s inconspicuous, even if Vienna barely fits in the back seat with Barnes.

“Can you move your seat up?” Barnes asks, his legs squished up against his chest, obviously uncomfortable in the small space.

“No.” Sam says testily.

Vienna lets out a long suffering sigh, her head falling back against Barnes’ metal arm, laid out along the back of the seat.

“<I could always stab him.>” She points out in Romanian.

“<They’re helping.>”

“Uh huh.”

“I know you two are talking about me back there.” Sam says, obviously annoyed. Vienna throws Barnes a sly look.

“<What do you think he’d do if I started playing with my knife?>” She asks with a sharp grin. He has to tamp down on his urge to smile.

“<He's either going to piss himself or challenge you to a fist fight.>”

“<You make that sound like a bad thing.>”

Barnes snorts, curling his metal hand around the back of her neck in a soothing gesture.

“<Easy, kitten.>” He admonishes, though his tone is teasing.

They watch as a blonde woman pulls up in another car, getting out and coming around the trunk to talk to Steve about the contents of said trunk.

When they kiss, apparently out of nowhere, Vienna wrinkles her nose.

“We have time for this?” She asks and Sam starts laughing uncontrollably. At her side, Barnes is also shaking in silent laughter, actively starting to wheeze when Steve looks towards the car and frowns when he see the two men laughing at him.

* * *

It isn’t until the next day, when they’ve been joined by Clint Barton, Wanda Maximoff, and Scott Lang, and are gearing up for the coming fight that Barnes pulls Vienna aside.

“We’re gonna need an exit strategy.” He says.

“From Siberia.” Vienna’s tone suggests she already knows where this conversation is going.

“Yes. You and the boys…” He tries, but she talks over him.

“If you think for _one-second_ that I’m letting you run off half-cocked to get yourself arrested, _again_ …”

“ _Please_ , Vienna.” She freezes when he interrupts her, her jaw ticking as she flexes it, anger stamped clearly over every inch of her face.

“You’re very lucky that I like you.” She finally says, deflating as she rocks back on her heels, expression smoothing out into mild annoyance. Barnes, too, seems to relax, his shoulders loosening as he reaches out to grip the side of her neck with one hand.

“Thank you.” He says.

“Don’t thank me until this bullshit is over.” She says and he nods, a soft smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. Vienna manages to mirror him, though her smile is more strained than his.

“I’m taking the Beetle.” She announces.

“Sam will be devastated.” Barnes answers.

“Sam is right here!” Sam snaps, annoyed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "English."  
> < Not English. >


End file.
